


Completely Funked Up, Vol. Deux (Afterparty)

by The_Colonel



Series: Do Robots Dream in Technicolor? [2]
Category: Daft Punk
Genre: Afterparty, Androids, Attempt at Humor, Awkwardness, Because Towels are Important, Boys Kissing, Cigarettes, Clubbing, Damn You Dior, Dior Suits, Dirty Dancing, Dogs, Dude I Love You, Established Relationship, Fame, Fluff and Humor, Grammy Awards, Guy-Man is a Nice Guy, Helmets, Homophobia, Human Daft Punk, Idiots in Love, Lady Gaga is a Nice Lady, M/M, POV Male Character, Social Anxiety, Star Wars References, Swearing, Sweat, Towels, fucktard
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-16
Updated: 2016-02-11
Packaged: 2018-05-07 01:55:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5439167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Colonel/pseuds/The_Colonel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The night of the 2008 Grammy Awards continues with out favourite robo-duo playing at the afterparty.<br/>Rihanna has the hots for Thomas, apparently.<br/>Guy-Manuel has a heart to heart with Lady Gaga behind a dumpster.<br/>Many cigarettes are smoked, many words exchanged.<br/>And the night is still young...</p><p>Continuation of the "Completely Funked Up" narrative, but works as a standalone fic as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Da Party

**Author's Note:**

> Seen from Guy-Man´s POV.  
> The rating is Explicit because of the naughty stuff in the second chapter.:)

“Give it up, y´all, ´cause here come yo favourite ´bots, mixin´ some sick beats just for ya!”

The afterparty of the Grammys was heavily attended this year, and the crowd cheered boisterously as Thomas and Guy-Manuel stepped behind the mixing table, all dolled up in their sleek black suits and their shiny, chrome helmets. Thomas, always happy to make a fool of himself just to make the audience laugh, started sending air-kisses to the people on the dance floor, while Guy-Man merely focused on getting the equipment ready and going. He heartily disliked those awkward moments just before they started to play - he could almost feel the eyes of the audience practically boring holes into his golden helmet (his golden retreat), focusing all their attention on him as a person, and not him as a musician. He could not wait to start the set, as performing gave him a sense of security, albeit a false one.

“I´m playing and the people are listening to the music and dancing and having a good time, and paying zero attention to me.”

At least that´s what he repeated to himself, over and over again, as he switched on the various controls on the mixing table.

A gentle hand was placed on his shoulder. He looked up at Thomas, who was watching him with his head cocked to one side. This usually meant “Are you ready?” in their silent, non-verbal language that they had to use when wearing the helmets.

Guy-Manuel gave a thumbs up, somewhere from the dance floor Rihanna hooted “Guys, we loooove youuuu!”, and Daft Punk started to play in da house…

The set was supposed to be only twenty or so minutes long, but after a measly ten minutes Guy-Manuel could already feel actual beads of sweat forming at the nape of his neck and on his shoulders, slowly making their way down his back.

It was always hot underneath the helmets when they were performing, but today was worse than ever, with the temperature at the club already high, and with the Dior Homme suits that they were wearing for the afterparty being made of high-quality, heavy, warm fabric.

Damn you, Dior!

Guy-Manuel wanted nothing more at this moment than to be able to strip into his underwear, run through the streets and jump into a fountain somewhere. And then smoke at least five cigarettes, preferably at one go.

Guy-Man glanced slyly to his right where Thomas was busy mixing some Le Knight Club samples into Da Funk, nodding his head with the beat and shaking his hips, obviously enjoying the show as much as the audience. He had already unbuttoned his suit jacket and loosened his tie, so now he looked more casual, a little debauched even, and somehow even more glam-rock than before. Guy-Man attributed this to the fact that Thomas must have won a genetic lottery, because almost every tailored suit looked gorgeous on his tall, lean figure.

Guy-Manuel considered unbuttoning his jacket too, but then decided to leave it as it was, as he did not greatly relish the idea of exposing his slightly rounded gut to the crowd. His clothes were his armour right now, so keep them on he had to.

Thankfully, the second part of the set flew by at a lightning speed, the audience loved it, the robots bowed and were allowed to leave the stage to mix with the crowd. Guy-Manuel tugged Thomas by the sleeve and mimed a “having a drink” gesture. Thomas nodded and was about to follow Guy-Man, when his path was crossed by Rihanna.

The diminutive singer was smiling from ear to ear, her hands on the hips of her sequined blue dress in false anger. “And where do you think you´re going, you two diva-droids?”

Guy-Manuel sheepishly shrugged his shoulders, and Thomas repeated the drinking gesture.

“Nu-uh!” Rihanna shook one red-nailed index finger right in front of Thoms´ visor. “You have to dance with your fans first, that is the proper _etiquette, mon cheri_.”

Thomas lifted his right hand towards his neck in one of his nervous tics and was probably about to decline the invitation, but was promptly seized by the other hand by Rihanna, who winked deviously at Guy-Manuel - “I´ll return him soon, promise!” - and dragged the silver-headed robot onto the dancefloor.

Guy-Manuel was left standing alone, in no mood to join the music-induced antics that were taking place all around him. He was suddenly feeling tired and thirsty and hungry and still a little hungover from his earlier cuba-libre-escapade and most of all hot, hot, _MERDE_ why was it so insanely hot in here?!

He ended up in the men´s lavatories, where he could (after locking the door and carefully checking that all the stalls were empty) take the helmet and gloves off for a few sweet moments. He rinsed his sweaty face and neck with cold water, wiped it with one of the complimentary towels that were lying in bundles all over the place, and took a few deep breaths. _Mon Dieu_ , it felt so good to be able to breathe properly.

“You okay there, buddy?!”

Guy-Manuel quickly put his helmet back on and unlocked the door. Jay Z smiled at him widely as he passed him on his way to the cubicles. “Great show, man. Loved the Crydamour samples. Vintage stuff, eh?”

The golden robot nodded shakily, collected his gloves and left the bathroom before the one-sided conversation could continue any further.

People.

So many people everywhere!

He quickly checked whether Thomas was still having fun on the dance floor - and surely enough, his own incredibly dorky yet lovable lover was dirty-dancing with Rihanna. She was currently rubbing her ass against his crotch and he was carefully holding her hips in his gloved hands, his body language belying that he was equal parts pleased and embarrassed.

Guy-Manuel took a picture on his smartphone - for later, when he would definitely use it to blackmail Thomas into doing the dishes after dinner for the next month or two - and left the main room of the club. He needed to clear his mind. He needed to unwind that tightly coiled spring in his stomach. He needed a shot of “I don´t care”.

In short, he needed a cigarette like crazy.

There was a smoking room, of course, but he could not use that for obvious reasons. Instead, he decided to leave the building altogether, and find some seedy dark alley of his own. Just as he was passing through the main entrance, deep in his private thoughts, he bumped shoulders with someone and almost knocked them to the ground.

“Ooops, my bad,” laughed the girl when she managed to stop wavering on her impossibly high heels. She had long, straight, almost white hair, a white dress with a short tutu-like skirt and some strange, crystal-shaped aplications on her shoulders. She looked kind of familiar, but Guy-Man could not place her as he was not very good with faces.

The girl smiled apologetically. “Are you alright, sir?”

Guy-Manuel nodded absentmindedly and continued in his tracks, but the girl followed him. “Mr. Christo, I… It´s probably kind of dumb to even ask you, but could I take a picture with you? It would mean a lot to me.”

Guy-Manuel paused, took a few more steps, then paused again. The sincerity in the girl´s voice was sweet and surprisingly believable. _Eh ben_ … This was a strange night anyway.

He turned back to her and patiently waited for her to rummage through her tiny handbag for her phone.

She put an arm around his shoulders as she pointed the camera at them both. “Say ´circuits´, because here comes the birdie!”

When she checked her phone to look at the picture, she smiled to herself coyly. “The little monsters will love this. I simply know they will.”

Guy-Manuel blinked, looked at her face again, studied her for a few moments, and then almost slapped his forehead. He whipped out his own phone, quickly typed something and showed it to the girl. She clapped her hands in pleasure. “Why yes, I am Lady Gaga. You know me? I could literally say ´squeee´ right now… Wow. Half of Daft effing Punk knows my name. How?”

Guy-Manuel gestured with his hands as though he were snapping a picture.

“Yeah, ´Paparazzi´. Should´ve guessed,” Lady Gaga smiled brightly, then leaned closer to the black plexiglass surface of Guy-Manuel´s visor. She whispered as though she were revealing a great secret, or trying to sell drugs. “Do you smoke, Mr. Christo?”

The golden helmet bobbed eagerly up and down.

“Then follow me, ´cause I know a place and you´re my guest tonight.”

Guy-Manuel would assume that they would turn some people´s heads as they walked together in the open, but tonight the city was full of celebrity lookalikes as well as of die-hard fans in full cosplay mode, so no one really paid much attention to a pretty blonde drag-queen leading a robot into one of the smaller, quieter streets.

Lady Gaga´s alley of choice was as dark and as seedy as they get, complete with a huge dumpster overflowing with trash and a fleet of cockroaches. The pair of musicians hid behind the dumpster, Lady G. once again giving a thorough shake up to the contents of her handbag and Guy-Manuel pondering on whether or not to take off his helmet. The dilemma was solved, however, as soon as the singer found a ratty looking packet of Marlboros and waved with it in her hand triumphantly.

Guy-Manuel took off his helmet at once, but remained facing away from his hostess.

“Don´t worry. Can´t see you in the dark, anyway,” Lady Gaga laughed as she passed him a lighted cigarette.

“ _Merci_ ,” Guy-Manuel thanked her quietly and took a deep drag, keeping the smoke in his lungs for as long as possible.

They smoked in companionable silence for some time, Lady Gaga blowing smoke rings and Guy-Manuel staring at the narrow sliver of the night sky above their heads.

“Don´t you just hate these stupid shebangs?” Lady Gaga said when she finished her first cigarette, and offered another one to the French musician.

“What is a... shebang?” Guy-Manuel asked curiously.

“Um…it can mean a situation, a social event in this case.”

“Then yes, I hate these shebangs,” Guy-Manuel agreed. “I am… no good with so many people around.”

“Me neither,” Lady Gaga smiled wistfully. “Sometimes I feel… I actually need to get high not to… not to feel endangered by the mob, if you get what I mean.”

“ _Oui_ , I think I do. But sometimes, it is necessary for an _artiste_ to show up in public, or so people keep telling me. That´s why we wear these,” Guy-Manuel lifted the hand in which he was holding the helmet. “To show Daft Punk, and not us, us as two boring guys from France. But still… I don´t like it. I don´t know these people here. I don´t like being with them. There is so many of them… Too many faces. Too many voices. Too many eyes. It is exhausting.”

Lady Gaga was silent for a bit, quite taken with what the Frenchman just said. Then she shook her head, as if to clear it. “Sorry for asking, Mr. Christo...”

“Please, _c´est_ Guy-Manuel.”

“Okay, Guy-Manuel… Why don´t you go home? The show´s over, so why stay for the party if you hate it?”

Guy-Manuel blew smoke through his nostrils, resembling a dragon in the process. “Why do you stay for the shebang, if you think it is stupid?”

Lady Gaga laughed. “Oh, well… A girl´s gotta do, what a girl´s gotta do, right?”

Guy-Manuel grinned, the expression concealed by the shadows on his face, but not by the tone of his voice. “A robot´s gotta do, what a robot´s gotta do… _Trés amusant_. I´ll tell that to my… friend.”

“Your friend... He takes to public appearances a lot better than you do, doesn´t he?”

“Yeah… I think that he just enjoys the atmosphere in clubs, you know, and he doesn´t care who he´s dancing with. Some random girl, Rihanna, a fanboy, Mahatma Gandhi… He doesn´t care. He likes people.”

Lady Gaga nodded, dragged on her cigarette, exhaled, and spat on the ground. “So you´re staying because of him? Or is he making you stay?”

“ _Ah, non,_ ” Gu-Manuel laughed lightly. “He´s not like that. _Moi_ … I am not like that. But I understand that we have to be at these events as a band, not as individual people. So I stay. For the band, for the robots… Still, I don´t have to pretend to like it, _ne c´est pas_? If I have good time, I do, if I don´t, I don´t.”

Lady Gaga looked at the outline of Guy-Manuel´s face. Her voice was serious. “You´re a nice guy, Guy. Has anyone told you that yet?”

“You´re a very nice lady yourself, Lady… Shit. What do I call you?”

“Joanne. Jo-Jo, if you like.”

“I like Joanne.”

“Yeah, me too.”

The cigarette butts were trampled on, a packet of chewing gum was passed from hand to hand, the golden helmet was put on, the white dress was adjusted. The trek back to the club was quiet, but comfortably so. Guy-Manuel offered Lady G. his elbow and she graciously accepted, letting herself be guided back to the room of bright lights and even brighter smiles.

They parted, she blowing him a kiss, he slightly bowing his head.

 When he was publically alone, Guy-Manuel searched the crowd with his eyes.

Now, where is this tall, dark, handsome stranger with a toaster instead of a head that makes all the pretty ladies swoon?

**TBC...**


	2. Da Funk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so this is going to be a little longer than I expected. But I promise, there definitely WILL be some smut at the end. :) So bear with me, guys.  
> Bear. With. Me.  
> Raaaawwwwrrrr.

 Rihanna obviously just could not let her favourite robot go. The tempo of the music slowed down now, the dancefloor was not as full as it had been only a song or two ago, but still the beauty of Barbados clung to the the freak from France, clutching his torso and looking up into his visor with a faraway smile.

Thomas was getting rather uncomfortable with the whole situation. Dancing like crazy with a pretty girl was one thing, being squeezed by her as though he were a lifebuoy was quite a different matter. Plus, he was pretty sure that she had already grabbed his butt more than thirty-four times that night. He counted it.

Thomas scanned the pairs dancing around, unsure how to extricate himself from the singer without offending her feelings, hoping perhaps to see a familiar face that he could call on for help. He didn´t spot anyone, but luck was on his side, nevertheless. God knows where from, Pharrell Williams suddenly appeared, squealing with delight - “OMG, duuuudes!” - and virtually plastered himself across Thomas´ back to start dancing with him and Rihanna.

“What the heck are you doing, Williams!” Rihanna leaned her head to one side and glared at the giggling intruder.

“Just joining in the fun, RiRi. You can´t keep this otherworldly being all to yourself, ya know, the gods sent him down for all of us,” Pharrell replied, completely unphased, and kissed the left sleeve of Thomas´ jacket. “Gotta share the love.”

“God, you´re such a douche, Pharrell,” Rihanna huffed with annoyance and finally let go of the tall musician. She winked at him before she left for the bar, though. “See you next time, Silver.”

When the air was clear at last, Pharrell detached himself from Thomas with a bright, undoubtedly stoned smile. He looked as high as a cloud in an April sky. “Got ya back, Jack.”

Thomas fistbumped his colleague´s offered hand, gratefully patted Pharrell on the back and left the dancefloor. He decided that the party was officially over for him, since he lost his appetite for dancing and couldn´t even chat with anyone interesting, not with the damned helmet on. Also, his body suddenly started cashing in the cheques for all kinds of energetic expenditures, cheques that were signed and oh-so-generously handed out out by one Mr. Bangalter that day.

Taking out his phone, he quickly texted Guy.

**_es-tu la?_ **

Few seconds later, a reply came.

**Behind the big fake palm by the window.**

Unsurprisingly, Thomas did find Guy-Manuel behind the big fake palm by the window, lying stretched on a low, wide windowsill, his hands behind his head, his legs crossed at the ankles. He looked as though he was having a nap amidst all this commotion, but his golden helmet turned slightly towards his newly arrived partner. Thomas stretched out his hand and Guy took it and let himself be hauled up to his feet. Knowing they should be as inconspicuous as possible, Thomas only threw one of his long arms across Guy´s shoulders instead of enveloping him in one of his trademark bear hugs, but he could feel Guy melting into the touch anyway.

Touch.

One simple touch would usually do the trick for them, one touch was all that was needed to restore their shared intimacy.

With a series of touches, one could convey the most complex information to the world. One could also send very simple, yet all the more meaningful messages.

Guy-Manuel got hold of Thomas´ wrist and tapped a few short and long taps.

.... --- -- .

In Morse code, this combination of signals stood for “home”, and Thomas happily nodded. The night might have been still young, but right now words like “shower”, “pyjamas”, “blanket” and “Guy-Manuel´s-bare-ass-in-my-hands-at-last-muahahaHAAA” seemed to equal with nirvana in his mind.

Their limousine arrived in a flash, and as soon as they were safely behind its tinted windows and the car departed from the curb into the traffic, they started to strip their robot personas away in an efficient, highly practiced manner. It almost resembled some kind of a ritual, the way Thomas carefully stowed the robots away into a large black sports bag, glove after glove, helmet after helmet.

Guy-Manuel rummaged through a smaller duffel bag and, not finding what he had been looking for, wrinkled his sweaty brow. “Where the hell are the towels?!”

“Don´t panic,” Thomas winked mischievously and threw a towel at his grumpy friend. “I always pack them, just for your convenience.”

“Thank fuck,” Guy-Man sighed in relief, furiously wiped his face for a few moments and then started to dry his hair. “How come I always sweat like a pig, whereas you just look… fresh and washed and ironed and perfumed and all that crap all the time?”

“You always ask this, Guy-Man, and you know that I always reply the same thing...” said Thomas, wearily looking out of the window.

“Is it because you´re Batman?” Guy-Manuel ventured.

“Because I´m **Batman**!!!” Thomas growled in a hoarse, throaty voice, doing his best Christian Bale impression.

“And people think that I am the weird one,” Guy-Manuel shook his head in mock disbelief, wiped his face again and threw the towel back at Thomas.

“Ewww!” Thomas squealed in surprise and disgust, shaking the wet towel off, and launching himself at Guy-Man in retaliation. The smaller of the duo was seized in two large paws, just like a fluffy baby bunny rabbit attacked by a rabid weasel. Or by a stoat. Or possibly even a martin, but the jury is still pretty much split on that one… The only thing that we know about this whole sorry affair with 100% clarity is that in no way did Thomas resemble a mongoose. Being murderously vicious was just not in his nature.

“Poor old Tom,” said Guy-Manuel, lying on his back, pressed into the upholstery of the backseat by the weight of Thomas´ body, enveloped in his tight hug. He smiled sweetly and kissed Thomas on the tip of his aquiline nose. “Provoked and harassed at every turn. First Rihanna, and now this… _Mon pauvre garçon_.”

“Don´t even start about Rihanna,” Thomas huffed with an annoyed roll of his eyes.

“Did she give you a… hard time?” Guy grinned lewdly and wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

“Like I´m telling you... What happens in da club, stays in da club.”

“She tried fondling your junk?”

“G-Guillame!”

“What?” Guy-Manuel was all innocence and wide blue eyes. “Couldn´t blame her. You make such a handsome household appliance.”

“Shush,” said Thomas fondly, leaned in and kissed Guy, at first lightly, then deepening the kiss, sucking on his tongue, carding his fingers through Guy-Manuel´s slowly drying hair, anything to keep the little cheeky _crétin des Alpes_ quiet and pliant and generally non-combatant for at least a few sweet seconds...

Thomas was actually expecting another one of Guy-Manuel´s comical tirades when he drew back, resurfacing from the kiss to breathe, but apparently a curious change had happened to his lover, because the provocative clown was gone. Instead, something strangely open and honest was currently present in Guy´s expression, something that hadn´t been there only a few moments before. Guy was quiet and thoughtful, but not withdrawn or detached like he would become in public or generally around people that he didn´t know very well.

Thomas still remembered that years ago, Guy-Man appeared to have only two mood settings - either he was shy, insecure and completely closed off in his tiny little shell, or he would interact with people by lightheartedly making fun of everyone and everything. He would hide his own face behind the mask of a loveable doofus, turning everything into a joke when things were getting serious and real cards were being dealt on the table. He would joke not to hurt other people´s feelings with the inevitable truths, but, more often than not, he would also joke to prevent from getting hurt himself.

Guy still reverted to these two “factory settings”, but generally he was a much more stable (and, to be honest, much more likeable) person to be around these days.

Now he watched Thomas with heavy-lidded, yet extremely attentive eyes, biting his bottom lip, as if on the verge of saying something.

“ _Dis-le-moi_ ,” Thomas encourage him gently.

Guy-Manuel sighed, kissed Thomas again and then averted his face slightly to one side. He usually did not make eye contact when he was about to say something of emotional significance. “I wish we could be like this more often.”

“Like what?”

“Like…” Guy struggled to find words. “Like no people around, no plans to make, no phones ringing, no ideas to put down on paper. Just you and me and bugger all to do… _Merde_. This sounds as stupid as fuck just as I´m saying it. Just when I thought that I stopped being a drama queen.”

Thomas smiled his warmest of smiles. “I don´t think it´s stupid, Guillame. I just...”

“You just...?”

Thomas scratched the back of his neck sheepishly. “Well, honestly, I´m not sure whether you want to go on a holiday together, take a break from the band, or whether you just proposed to me in a really bizarre, and frankly also quite a disturbing way.”

“Well, actually...” Guy-Manuel covered his eyes with his forearm. He´d used this gesture of exasperation since Thomas could remember. “I think I was just feeling a little… _jaloux_.”

“Of whom? Rihanna?” Thomas offered, amused.

“Nah. Of the whole… showbiz shebang, I guess. Wherever we go, people want a piece of Bangalter, but I´ d selfishly like to keep all of your parts -including the naughty bits, of course - to myself,” Guy said, his serious moment almost over, but not quite yet. He suddenly took his arm away from his eyes, looking straight at Thomas. He looked so comically flustered - his eyes as wide as saucers and his mouth a perfect “O” of surprise - that Thomas almost started to laugh. “I think I love you, dude.”

“And I think you´re still drunk,” Thomas countered with a smirk. But then, leaning closer to Guy, he admitted quietly and sombrely: “ _Mais oui, je t´aime, aussi_. Dude.”

 

TBC


	3. DaFuq? Angry?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter (and also the following one) is inspired by “D.A.F.T. : A Story about Dogs, Androids, Firemen and Tomatoes”

The road was blocked.

There had been some kind of a traffic accident, and the road ahead of them had been blocked, all of its six lanes remarkably full for such a late hour. No one knew how long the traffic jam would last.

The voice of the driver was crackly on the intercom of the limousine. “Are you sure you wanna walk? Whole lotta weirdos on these streets tonight.”

“Yes, thank you, we´ll be fine, Daniel,” Thomas replied, pulling on his coat. “It´s not that far from here.”

“And weird is our thing, y´know,” said Guy-Manuel, snatched a bottle of dry champagne from the mini-fridge and climbed out of the car.

“Suit yourselves, boys,” replied Daniel. “Have a good night.”

“You too, Dan.”

The night was crisp, but not too cold. Still, it was a nice change from both the stifling atmosphere in the helmets and the dry, overheated air that blew out of the limousine´s AC.

Thomas breathed in with gusto, taking in the sight of all those cars that were currently trapped in one place like so many angry little flies in a glob of corn syrup, then he exhaled with a soft “ah” on his breath. He slung the black bag with their robot parts over his shoulder and extended a free hand towards Guy-Manuel. “ _Allons-y._ ”

“Gimme a mo,” Guy-Manuel replied, a streaming cigarette already clasped between his lips, its glowing tip dancing in the near-dark. He uncapped the bottle of bubbly, taking off the cork with a barely audible “pop” and very little wine spilled. His cigarette momentarily held between a finger and a thumb, he took a long swig from the bottle, passing the champagne to Thomas afterwards. Thomas took a sip, too, then offered his hand to Guy-Man for a second time. The shorter man accepted it this time, squeezing Thomas´ palm with silent affection.

It was nice and all too rare for the couple to walk out in the open air, just holding hands and not caring if and/or who might actually see them. They usually didn´t publicly display any signs of mutual intimacy when they were in their robotic gear, not because they were shy to be gay, but because they actively believed that their private life should not interfere with their professional one, and vice versa. They also believed that their domestic situation was none of people´s damn business.

As Guy once told Thomas: “I don´t mind being in the closet, as long as you´re there with me, preferably with your cock in my mouth.”

The champagne bottle was empty and discarded faster than you could say “buy it-use it-break it-fix it”, the night becoming just that one bit more luminous, Guy-Man´s laughter growing just a decibel or two louder, Thomas clutching Guy-Man´s hand just that imperceivable quantity tighter. This was not an unexpected development in their infrequent drunkapades. In fact, their nights out usually went pretty much the same.

Very soon, Guy-Man would start getting horny and would try groping Thomas, whereas Thomas would get all sappy and sentimental and would start asking Guy-Man whether he remembered the **exact** moment and place they´ve met each other for the **very** first time. Then Guy-Man would take his jacket as well as his shirt off and try doing cartwheels in the middle of the pavement, and Thomas would be forced to remind Guy-Man that, as talented as he was in music making, painting and other arts, he really, truly and irreparably sucked at gymnastics and, well... at athletic sports in general. After that, Guy-Man would start getting dressed again and would tell Thomas to “fuck off” and mind “his own fucking business”, and Thomas would pretend that he was angry and would start walking away. This would of course lead to Guy-Man chasing after him with his shirt still half unbuttoned, and then...

“Awww… Look who´s come begging for forgiveness?! Kiss me, you silly drunken monkey.”

“Well, I would, but-uh… There´s a wolf watching us. Can´t kiss you when there´s a wolf staring at us like I´m a roast chicken and you´re a stick of asparagus, Thomas. Guess who´s he going to eat first?”

Thomas looked up from Guy-Manuel´s worried face, saw the animal in question and frowned. “That´s not a wolf, Guy. It´s just a big dog. A shepherd, or something.”

“ _C´est un loup, je te dis_!”

Thomas shook his head and clicked his tongue at the large, greyish-brown, shaggy-haired, sharp-nosed dog that was sitting on the steps of a nearby apartment building. “You´re a nice little doggie, ain´t you? Wouldn´t hurt a newborn kitten, would you now?”

The animal gave Thomas a look of utter disgust and yawned disinterestedly. It had a very impressive set of canines and a large red tongue that lolled and wagged out of the dog´s maw as if it had a devious, demonic mind of its own.

“It doesn´t even have a collar,” Guy-Manuel pointed out nervously. “Let´s just go, okay?”

“It´s alright, Guillaume. He´s probably lost,” Thomas said stubbornly, slowly edging closer to the alleged wolf. “Maybe we should call the c-cops or something. Or p-pet control.”

“And maybe we should leave that thing bloody well alone. What if it… DON´T TOUCH IT, are you crazy, Bangalter?!”

“See? Nothing to worry about,” said Thomas, stooping down and patting the dog/wolf on the top of its flat head. “He´s a good...”

The dog/wolf glared at Thomas and probably decided that it had been patronized enough for one night, because in the next second it launched itself at the musician, sinking its teeth into the sleeve of his winter coat. Everything happened so fast that Thomas did´t even have the time to flinch or yelp.

“Chewie, down! Down boy, git down! Bad dog!”

The dog rolled its eyes in their sockets upon hearing its master´s voice, showing its whites to the petrified recipient of its bite, clenching its jaws severely for a few ugly moments, as if unsure of what to do next.

“I said _down_ you crazy mutt!”

The dog growled reluctantly and finally let go, slowly backing away. Its owner stepped out of the shadows and into the light of a nearby streetlamp, collaring and leashing the dog immediately. “So sorry, gents, but he hates being pet. Should´ve kept your hands to yourself, sir.”

“Should´ve kept that dog collared!” Guy-Man retorted, not looking up from what he was doing. He was currently trying to roll up the half-torn sleeve of Thomas´s coat and check whether Thomas was actually hurt in the incident or not. “Are you okay, _chéri_? Are you bleeding?”

“I´m f-f-fine,” Thomas managed to get through his chattering teeth.

“Awww, now ain´t that just dandy?” the dog owner´s voice went up an octave with irony and irritation. “I was worried that my pooch mighta hurt some respectable people, while all he did was scare the flamin´ bejesus outta couple homos.”

“Put a lid on it, _crétin_ ,” Guy-Manuel muttered, trying not to pay much attention to the jibes.

“Bet you´re gonna sue my ass as soon as you get to your Barbie mansion, huh, fags? Bet you´re gonna gather up all your fag friends into one gigantic queen-mob and come at me and my dog hard, amiright?”

“Fucking fuck off already, you fucking fucktard!” Guy-Man yelled, pivoting around to face the offending man, automatically lifting his arms up in a boxing stance. He sounded and looked so furious that the owner and his dog both involuntarily took a step backwards. Guy-Manuel was not very tall, but what he lacked in height he more than made up for with sheer gonna-murder-you-in-your-sleep-and-chew-on-your-raw-liver crazy-eyedness. Seeing Guy-Man this angry was a rare thing - even for Thomas, who counted as one of Guy´s oldest and closest friends, if being his lover was not enough.

Thomas lay a calming hand on Guy-Manuel´s right shoulder, while looking poignantly at the man with the dog. “It´s okay, Guy-Man. The man was only joking. Weren´t, you sir?”

“Sure ´nuff,” replied the man after some hesitation, gathered his dog and exited the stage, both he and the animal grumbling something ugly under their respective breaths.

Thomas and Guy-Manuel both breathed out in relief.

Guy-Man wiped at his face with a shaky hand. “Well, that was fucking nasty.”

“Ch-chewbacca,” said Thomas.

“What?” Guy-Manuel´s eyebrows knit together in confusion and he turned around to look at his partner. “What with what and what again?”

“I j-just got bit by Ch-Chewbacca owned b-b-by...” Thomas was visibly shaking, either with excitement, or with the shock he had received and which only now started to catch up with him. “C-C-C Three P-P...”

The man with the dog was already far down the street, but Guy-Manuel was still able to catch a glimpse of his strange, jerky movements and a glint of golden metal. “Huh?”

“C-3PO,” said Thomas at last, this time flawlessly. “That was a C-3PO cosplay. Great costume. Pity he didn´t have the robot head on as well. Pity he didn´t stay to chat. A-and pity that he was so… hom-mophobic.”

Guy-Manuel shook his head, extending his arm to ruffle Thomas´s hair fondly. “Not even taking in regard your strange tolerance for xenophobic androids… Taunting that dog was a really retarded thing to do, Thomas. You could´ve been hurt, or gotten rabies or… Are you sure he didn´t pierce your skin?”

“Pretty sure,” Thomas acknowledged and bent to pick up the black bag he had dropped when Chewbacca attacked him. “He just ruined my coat, that´s all.”

Guy-Manuel shook his head in disbelief. “How am I the sane and responsible one in this relationship?”

“Must be hereditary. Must be all that blue blood of yours. Reasonable behaviour, manners, protocol, proper rules of fisticuffs and all that fancy shit.”

“Yeah,” Guy-Manuel snorted, but there was a glint of a smile in his eyes. He usually couldn´t´resist Thomas´s teasing, not even when he was miffed. “You know very well that the only things that are hereditary in my family are short legs, unibrows and an addiction to shoe polish.”

“And also bad taste in men,” said Thomas, somewhat self-consciously.

“A _great_ taste in men,” Guy--Man corrected. There was something fierce and loving in his voice, something Thomas clung to every time he felt unsure of what the future held. “De Homem-Christos have always known how and why to pick their love interests, the randy buggers. Anyway... want a fag?”

“You know I do,” Thomas nodded with a mischievous smile and accepted a lit cigarette. He didn´t smoke very often, but this whole situation called for it. He took a few drags and looked at Guy-Manuel, suddenly noticing for the first time that the shorter man´s shoulders were stretching his jacket a lot taughter than perhaps a few months ago. “Those boxing lessons are starting to pay off for you, huh?”

“Yeah, I guess…” Guy-Man looked at his shoes, then laughed. “Though I have absolutely no idea what I´de have done if the guy decided to come back at me.”

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, I know that Lady G. did not even attend the 2008 Grammys (or DID she?!), but I just could not resist this idea.  
> I am only human, after all.:)
> 
> And as usual - forgive my French, forgive my English, and forgive my mistakes. But point them out, if you see any, and they will be corrected.:)


End file.
